Take From Me My Lace
by dead-dodo
Summary: A (late) submission to the Pink Lace Challenge 2013 on Tumblr.


Imagine Person A of your OTP coming home from a long day at work. Person B is thrilled to see them but can tell that they're stressed. So Person B starts to give Person A a massage, slowly kissing their neck and shoulders, feeling all over their body. The tension builds and Person A can't take it anymore so they grab Person B, pull them onto their lap and they have a long love making session. Must include reference or appearance (which can then be followed by the disappearance of) a pink lace brassiere….matching knickers optional!

* * *

Dr Richard Clarkson was not the least bit surprized to see the pile of hair pins on his bedside table, not concerned with the clothes that were draped over his chair and only slightly annoyed that a bottle of his favorite whisky had clearly been opened and a good measure drunk. It had after all, been a very trying day at the hospital and Isobel, like the angel she was, had done too much in an effort to make his day easier. However it must have been worse than he imagined for her to have ended up in asleep his bed without him.

What really caught his attention was the thin strap running over her perfect shoulder. Being a doctor he got to see more of women's under garments than most men. The changing fashions had not escaped his notice but nothing he had glimpsed in his professional capacity compared to the tantalizing hint of delicate baby pink satin.

He thought about letting her sleep, getting the rest she so clearly needed but he was so happy that she had come to him after a bad day, choosing him, singling him out as her safe haven. In the end temptation won. Finishing the whisky that remained in the glass he undressed and slid under the cold sheets snuggling up behind her, his eyes widening as he felt the scratch of lace and, simultaneously, the slide of satin against his groin. He kissed her neck as she wriggled back against the warmth of his chest causing more tantalizing friction.

"I have had a terrible day" came a small voice

"I know, I saw"

"I hurt my back moving a patient"

"You should have asked me for help"

"I might be asking now…."

He smiled, his Isobel was never backward in coming forward.

He ran a finger slowly down the satin strap, running over a band of lace before tracing soft skin down to the next item that his body was enjoying the feel of. Running his hand around her front he continued to reconnoiter the lace, his mind contemplating all the images of how the material might look, in the daylight, in the candlelight, if Isobel was perhaps laying on top of the bed waiting surrounded by cool cotton sheets, or if she was wearing that thin white blouse, if she was…..

His hands continued to explore, enjoying the flexibility of the material in comparison to a corset, how he could feel her nipples through the lace, tracing the curves and peaks, and it was erotic, not having to fight with bone and ribbons, a no less powerful thing for the lack of the slow unwrapping. A strap slid off her shoulder as his fingers soothed the muscles, erased the tension, the glide and rub addictive to them both. And soon she was pushing, a delicate fidget, an impatient gesture, an exquisite torture of lace and satin against his chest, his pelvis.

"Better?" He asked

"Not entirely" came the muffled reply

"did I miss a bit?" He whispered as he buried his nose in the hair by her ear, dropping kisses down the side of her neck as he went, nibbling, hands running down the side of her spine, searching.

Hips writhed as she turned wrapping a leg over his and pulling him into the cradle of her hips. Holding him tight, a foot running up the inside of his leg, the other heal coming to rest on the flesh of his bottom.

"forget my back"

Fingers were simultaneously threaded into hair as their mouths met and tongues stroked and dueled, both taking hard sucking breaths when they could as they slid and ground in unison, fingers digging into soft skin, whispers and suggestions being exchanged. He dipped his head down catching a shred of lace between his teeth, pulling it out of the way to explore the skin beneath it to tease her with lips and tongue.

The lace and satin were rapidly loosing their novelty and he was becoming impatient with evening the smallest hindrance to his explorations. A moment later there was an indignant protest as he pushed her onto her stomach and started work on learning how to undo this new invention that had even smaller hooks to frustrate him. Soon he was pulling her up onto all fours and the brassière falling down her arms onto the bed. He gripped each side of her knickers, sliding the damp material down her legs before running his hands back up. Pulling her slowly backwards onto his lap, onto him, causing them both to breathe unevenly.

"move"

She is gripping the arm that is around her waist, manicured nails leaving crescents in taught muscle, and the slow movement, the slide and push is making him tremble in his submission. He cant be still for long, be passive, and he is dragging his arm away, down, fingers slipping against her, causing a shuddering jerk and her head to fall forward. Then its his turn to jerk, her hand has slipped down as well, touching him in return, cupping and rolling and he tries to resist the ebb and flow of warmth that is spreading over him. He is fighting the need to take control, to end her slow build, her precise torture. It's a losing battle, they both know it, and it's just a question of how and when they give in.

He crumbles first, pushing her forward, damp back pressed against damp chest, ribs flaring with breaths taken in concert. His brain is always filled with dark animalist thoughts when they are like this. Its good, and he's hungry for it, for the power, the dominance, the tight restriction of her body, the hint of protection as he encloses her. She's pushing back against him now, forcing an increase in tempo, arching her back and changing the angle causing his vision to blur. Words were spilling from her lips between heavy breaths, moans, pleas, and praise confused together, whispered and murmured, urging him on.

He clutches at her blindly, head buried between her shoulder blades, eyes squeezed shut, holding tightly, griping her shoulder, her neck, her hair, her breast. He looks, searching for something to focus on but he catches sight of the discarded scraps of satin and lace and as all the possibilities flash through his mind he falls.


End file.
